


In The Absence Of The King

by hitlikehammers



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (And Thorin Finds It Hot As All Get-Out In Kind), Bilbo is Competent As All Get-Out, Court as Held By The Prince Consort, Domestic Fluff, Dwarven Politics, M/M, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The glaring lack of a welcoming procession for his arrival—unexpectedly early or no—should have been his first clue that something was not quite correct in the Kingdom Under the Mountain. </p><p>Nevertheless: Thorin would never have expected to find <i>this</i> having transpired—nay, having <i>flourished</i>—in his absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Absence Of The King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RC_McLachlan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_McLachlan/gifts).



> My attempt to fill a long almost-forgotten prompt from the lovely [RC_Mclachlan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_Mclachlan) for the holiday. Hopefully it's not too nonsensical <3

The glaring lack of a welcoming procession for his arrival—unexpectedly early or no—should have been his first clue that something was not quite correct in the Kingdom Under the Mountain. 

Arrangements had progressed admirably, and swiftly for the King’s delegation to persuade some of Dáin’s folk to take up long-denied places in the Lonely Mountain—Thorin had taken provisions and only a small group of attendants, all of whom were set to spend the rest of the deepening winter in the Iron Hills as honoured guests. Thorin, however, was compelled to return to his own kingdom despite the vicissitudes of weather: his people needed him. 

And _he_ needed his beloved Consort. It had been too many weeks since Thorin had gazed upon that face, and held those strong hands in his own, felt the lithe strength of the body against his own between the furs draped across their bed. 

Yes. Thorin was much needed back in Erebor. 

But it takes the sentry more minutes than it ought to raise the gates to his King, and even when Thorin enter to bow and well wishes in greeting, the entry hall is all but abandoned. 

Thorin ignores the unease in the pit of his stomach and focuses instead on the more rational, secondary reaction of bewilderment. Surely at the first sight of his approach his partner and heirs would be alerted and summoned at once. At the very least. 

Something, indeed, is not quite right. 

“Uncle!”

Thoring turns toward the familiar warmth of his eldest nephew’s tone, and tells himself that such joy in that voice, in those eyes at the sight of his uncle cannot logically coexist with loss, with all the horrible scenarios that had taken residence in Thorin’s mind, like thorns in his chest.

“We had not anticipated your arrival for another fortnight, at least! The weather—”

“Would not keep a Son of Durin from his Kingdom,” Thorin cuts Fíli off with a wave of his hand. “A Kingdom quite bereft of activity, I see.”

Thorin suspects the quirk of his eye communicates his suspicion, if not his concern. He’s unsure if his own blood can read it in him nonetheless, but Fíli does nothing but grin all the wider.

“Here, perhaps, though that would have been much different had we word of your homecoming.” It’s part apology, part chiding, and Thorin is struck by just what a ruler Fíli will prove one day. Their line, he knows, is more than secure in the hands of his sister-son.

And yet, he still has not answer for the question that lingers, looms between them and takes space within the air.

“Come, Uncle,” Fíli beckons. “You may not quite believe it, lest you witness with your own eyes.”

This, unfortunately, only serves to light fire again to Thorin’s nerves. Because he’s returned home, albeit unplanned, and yet.

There’s not a trace of Bilbo. Not _anywhere_.

And Thorin, after everything, cannot stand idly in the absence of the sworn mate of his very soul.

__________________________________

“Is it not time for Court?” Thorin asks as they make their way through the halls.

“Indeed,” Fíli answers, unconcerned. Which only deepens Thorin’s frown.

“And did I not name you royal proxy in my absence?”

Fíli pauses, if only slightly, before continuing to stride toward what thorin can now tell is the Throne Room. Where it is _time for Court_. Which is the _King’s_ place to oversee and mediate appropriately.

And in the King’s _absence_ it is the place of the _royal proxy_.

“You did,” Fíli concedes, though with considerably less concern regarding the matter than Thorin himself feels rising in his veins. 

“Then why are you _here_ ,” Thorin does his best not to clecnh his jaw to the point of cracking teeth; “and not—”

“Quiet, Uncle,” Fíli whispers, suddenly, as he places a hand to ease open the Throne Room. Thorin himself is taken enough aback by the subtle command of _King_ , blood or now, that he quietens as he’s told, and only makes to speak in reply once it’s too late, for they’re already in the Throne Room. They’re already blocked by a throng of bodies, held captive by the head of the chamber.

“Now, let me be sure I’ve got this straight,” Thorin hear a voice—quite a dear voice, in fact—ring through the space that stretches wide, muffled though by the sheer number of dwarves in attendance: more than Thorin’s even seen across his grandfather’s, his father’s, never mind his own reign. 

“The exchange was still in its early stages when the actual transfer of possessions was made, and while it did seem a viable one at first blush,” Bilbo, dressed in the least of his finery and missing the circlet that spoke to his position, and yet still glittering in ways that Thorin cannot tear his eyes from: Bilbo, seated on the throne as if it was crafted for his perfect body, gestures to the dwarf of the rust-colored beard to his left; “The Good Farin, son of Borin seems to have mistaken the sheer number of gems from The Honorable Frár, son of Frór,” he then nods to the fairer dwarf at his opposite side; “as adequate payment for his larger offering. When in fact, the Good Farin was in possession of a rare jade diamond, when the Honorable Frár was merely proposing to trade common emeralds. That’s the long and short, yes?”

Both dwarves nod, eyes wide in anticipation of Bilbo’s guidance as the Hobbit strokes his chin and considers, long and hard.

“My friends,” Bilbo finally speaks, “as an Old Took was known to say, a field of simple Longbottom Leaf will never match a single pipe of Old Toby.” 

The dwarves, predictably, look a touch lost, and Thorin cannot help the swelling of his heart as Bilbo smiles, and sighs, but only kindly.

“The quality outweighs the quantity, son of Borin, son of Frór,” he opens his arms, gestures broadly. “And many more emeralds would be needed to match even a shard of the diamond in question.”

And bafflingly, impressively, _impossibly_ : while Borin looks vindicated, he does not celebrate his fellow’s loss; and where Frór looks chastened, he does not argue. The Consort of the King has spoken sense, and kindly so.

And it’s been accepted, been applied to need and the conflict resolved with less bickering and fist-throwing than Thorin’s ever seen, let alone managed for himself.

Fíli was right. He would not have believed it without seeing it with his own eyes. Not for lack of faith in his beloved, but for lack of faith in the idea that his own people could be so placidly, peaceably ruled.

“Has this been the norm, the whole of my absence?” Thorin asks his nephew in low tones.

“All but the first day,” Fíli confesses. “I did my best to follow your bidding, uncle, but a trade dispute arose and I was only driven to anger in the face of anger,” Fíli looks ashamed, but it’s unnecessary, Thorin knows; he’d have likely fared no better.

“But Bilbo, ever at the hand of the Throne, he stepped in with absolute calm and skill. I thought at first things were resolved by his hand for the sheer disbelief of the people at his intervention, but it became clear, and soon, that the ways of the Hobbits must indeed be effective, for we’ve not had a single drop of blood spilled in Erebor since you left, Uncle. Save for a single birth, which Bilbo oversaw the proper festivities to celebrate, and perhaps a few stray needle-pricks amongst the embroiderers.”

Thorin shakes his head, his smile spreading as he gazes upon the whole of his heart, seated on his Throne. He watches as Ori leans toward Bilbo, speaks in his ear, and retreats once Bilbo nods.

“Good people of Erebor,” Bilbo gestures broadly to his audience once more; “midday is upon us, and I’ve been informed I’ve quite missed elevenses entirely.”

The crowd chuckles good-naturedly, and Bilbo clasps his hands loudly with a chuckle of his own. 

“Good Farin, good Frár, I advise further negotiations, with value kept clear in mind as the driving factor of your dealings. Let us now adjourn to tend our appetites,” he pats his own stomach as he rises, “and we shall return come the morrow to address this and other matters, as they arise.”

A chorus of murmuring accompanies the universal inclination of heads in deference to Bilbo, _his_ Bilbo, beautiful Hobbit, beautiful heart and soul of Thorin’s being—and this is Thorin’s kingdom. This is Thorin’s family in its largest, sprawling sense, showing absolute respect for Thorin’s chosen, his only.

Thorin nearly cannot breathe.

Thorin follows Fíli to a darkened corner as the chamber empties, as Fíli’s mouth quirks into a sly grin and he steals away along the walls, unseen, toward the front of the room to whisper to Ori, whose eyes flicker toward where Thorin lingers mostly hidden, invisible to his subjects as they file out before he nods, and approaches Bilbo he appears to be making his own retreat.

“Your Highness,” Thorin hears Ori address Bilbo, and nearly laughs aloud—deep from the belly—and the roll of Bilbo’s eyes and the sigh that lifts his shoulders.

“Ori, _how_ many times do I have to insist you call me—”

“Bilbo,” Ori corrects quickly. “You have one more grievance to address.”

Bilbo’s face falls, but it only remains for a moment—invisible to anyone who did not know him so intimately, so deep inside his own bones, and Thorin knows that Bilbo’s stomach must be rumbling, and he feels sympathy for his beautiful, perfect Hobbit and vows to find him a plate of cakes as soon as they’re done. Preferably to be hand-fed to him on their own long-shared bed.

“Right,” Bilbo takes his seat again, and oh, but Thorin will convince his lover to be taken on that Throne one day, yet. He _will_.

He’ll even offer to be taken there himself, if that’s what it takes.

“Send them forth,” Bilbo says, voice louder now to ring through the empty hall as he beckons with one hand toward an unseen subject of the Kingdom currently held safe beneath his caring eye.

And Thorin cannot help himself: he reveals himself swiftly, without pretense, and crosses the space between himself and his beloved in the time it takes Bilbo’s face to morph from hidden longing for a taste of mutton to sheer elation that Thorin knows is mirrored tenfold in his own eyes.

“Will you make exception for me, Your Royal Highness,” Thorin asks, bowing his head, “and delay your luncheon for a lonely wanderer deprived too long of the only warmth he needs in this world?”

And Bilbo, being Bilbo, denies him little, and certainly not this: he’s in Thorin’s arms and kissing his neck before either of them can speak.

“I did not expect you today, my love,” Bilbo speaks into Thorin’s neck, the stream of his breath sending shivers down Thorin’s spine.

“Nor did I expect to see my Kingdom in such capable hands,” Thoring counters, taking those very hands in his own and kissing the open palms long; tender until Bilbo flushes pink to his fingertips.

“You amaze me, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin breathes at Bilbo’s wrists, and they stay like that for a moment, for a handful of breaths before Bilbo twists his hands and grasps Thoring in kind, tugs him away toward their private chambers, because it _has_ indeed been too long. 

“Cakes to the Royal Chambers, Ori, if you will,” Thorin manages to say before Bilbo’s mouth is on his own, and they’re stumbling, joyous and to the chuckling of their dearest compatriots still dotting the Throne Room, and Bilbo only draws away for a moment, but it’s a moment too long.

However, the adoring look in those eyes makes up for it. Mostly.

“How you know me,” Bilbo exhales, cupping Thorin’s roughened cheek. “Love of mine.”

“How you dazzle me,” Thorin says in return, framing Bilbo’s own face; “heart in my breast, whole of my world.”

And Bilbo only blushes deeper as they trip further toward their bedchambers, the cakes a secondary concern by now.

Though Thorin suspects that they’ll enjoy those sufficiently, too. When the time comes.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).


End file.
